LITMIR.BIZ

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       They didn’t send a barely legal young woman to rattle your cage when all you wanted was to be left alone.

       “Since we’ve established I don’t maim for sport and you faint at the drop of a hat—” he nodded toward the carcass “—guess I’d better bag this bad boy.” He rolled up his other sleeve and slipped a breathable sack over the meat. “You might want to set your sights on a career path other than the Marine Corps.”

       After tying off the sack, he raised the hoist.

       The meat needed a good six hours to cool. It could wait. She couldn’t. Someone had to give this chick a reality check. “Maybe the Navy’s more your style, a nice cushy job aboard an aircraft carrier. Like explosive ordnance handler?”

       Those bombs could weigh her down so a strong wind wouldn’t blow her overboard. Despite her height, which he put around five foot ten, she was a featherweight.

       Still, she’d have to have a husband just to join.

       “I tried there first,” she said in all seriousness. “They didn’t want me.” She looked down at the can of ginger ale in her hands. “The Marine recruiter…” She shrugged. “He suggested I come see you.”

       She lifted hopeful eyes to Hatch. If he was her only hope, she was shit out of luck. He didn’t want any more needy women in his life. He’d returned home to put all that behind him.

       “What about the boy’s father?”

       “What about him?”

       “He’d be the logical choice for a husband. There’s a reason the armed services don’t allow single parents to enlist.” Resisting the urge to remove his patch and show her just how ugly war could get, Hatch continued to try to make some sense of her request. “Selling cosmetics doesn’t seem like such a bad way to make a living.”

       He didn’t know jack about that biz, but he did know cars. So unless she’d carjacked an elderly Mary Kay lady for that pink prize, he couldn’t figure out how she’d gotten it. That specialty Seville was at least as old as he was, and wasn’t the kind of vehicle offered up for sale, even used.

       But that didn’t mean she couldn’t earn one of her own. How hard could it be for a woman to sell lipstick to other women? Although Peaches looked more all-natural pretty than put-together pretty. He’d bet she hadn’t even reached her full beauty potential. Given a few more years and the confidence to carry it off, she’d be a real knockout.

       “I’m not much of a salesperson.” She dismissed the idea as if she’d heard it before. Pride kept her chin up and her eyes focused on him.

       Eyes like that could get a man in trouble. Not jewel-toned. That would have overpowered her pretty complexion. But earth-toned. Soft like a bed of moss in springtime.

       Which would have been a decent analogy if his thoughts hadn’t strayed to laying her down in it. He liked his women lean and leggy.

       He shook his head to clear it.

       What the hell was he thinking?

       She was too young and too damn wholesome for him. Plenty of guys her own age would jump at the chance to marry her.

       So why him? She didn’t know him. Or she’d realize he wasn’t even a good temporary solution for her particular situation. At the very least she should have taken one look at him and run.

       But she hadn’t. She was sitting there eyeing him as though he had the answer to all life’s problems. Like she was his kid sister, for crying out loud. Hell, Jessie, his own sister, would have been about her age had she lived to see twenty.

       He scrubbed a hand over his beard and folded his arms.

       “What about family? Your parents couldn’t approve of this trip.” Although her coming here in the first place suggested a lack of parental guidance.

       “There’s only my grandma Shirley and me. And Ryder.” His trespasser set those soft, mossy-green eyes on him. “I’m prepared to make whatever sacrifices I have to in order to join the military. Being a single mom isn’t any easier as a civilian.”

       He didn’t doubt that.

       “I think,” he said, choosing his next words carefully, “you’ve been misinformed.” He leveled his gaze on her. “If you want me to track down the boy’s father, I can do that. I’ll even waive my usual fee and throw in a shotgun wedding.”

       She blinked, clearly puzzled.

       Apparently shotgun humor went way over her head.

       “Are you some sort of goon for hire?”

       “Beats groom for hire. Either way, you couldn’t afford me.”

       Those odd jobs on the fringe of his former career as a Navy SEAL had gotten him through this past year. But jobs for a peripherally challenged operative were few and far between. In fact, her broken-down Cadillac was the most excitement he’d had in a long time.

       He reached into the truck bed toolbox and grabbed a gallon jug of coolant. “Now if you’ll excuse me—” he nodded toward her car “—I have goon business to attend to.”

       His mistake was in turning his back on her.

       Halfway down the road he heard the screen door slam. The hollow sound echoed through his memory. All those times he’d tried to leave and couldn’t, because his mother had begged him to stay, even as she’d crowded him out with all her crap.

       The last time, he’d let the door slam.

       At age seventeen.

       The military had seemed like his only way out. But he’d needed a parent’s signature to join.

       His mother had refused, as he knew she would. But he could always count on his father to be drunk enough not to know or care what he was signing. So Hatch had driven to Laramie, found the old man in one of his shit-hole bars and said his goodbyes.

       He’d never blamed his father for leaving.

       Only for leaving him behind.

       Which was what had drawn him to the Teams. The military wasn’t just a job. It was a lifestyle. He understood the appeal of that for himself. He couldn’t see it for her.

       After turning around he set the coolant jug on the tailgate, he took a deep breath and followed her inside. She’d stopped three feet from the kitchen, and was holding the crook of her arm up to her nose. The stench was enough to put anyone off, but she couldn’t have gone any farther had she wanted to.

       Worse than the floor-to-ceiling trash were the treasures that reminded him he’d once called this place home—the refrigerator magnet holding his sixth-grade photo; the teapot with the broken handle, still on the windowsill and littered with dried leaves.

       The house had always been what family and friends referred to as a tidy mess. Meaning that at one time his mother had at least attempted to control her compulsion, even though the house had always gotten the better of her.

       His parents had fought over the messiness in their lives. The lack of money. Love. Kindness and respect.

       He’d been too young to make the connection. His mother’s need to fill the void with stuff was part of a vicious cycle. Her collecting got worse after his baby sister died, and again after his dad left. Hatch had always known his mother’s hoarding would get the best of her. The only thing he’d taken with him when he left was the guilt of knowing that.

       And leaving, anyway.

       Because things got even worse after that.

       Peaches lowered her arm and offered a weak smile. “Uh, who died in here?”

       “My mother.”

      CHAPTER TWO

      “I’M SORRY.” ANGELA

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